Date: Sun, 5 May 2002 19:36:52 +0100 (BST)
From: "[iso-8859-1] nder pants"
Subject: The Mastery of Table-Turning (Chapter Seventeen) [Gay - Authoritarian]
THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING
[Thirty-year-old English public schoolmaster, Alan Watson, a much abused
sex-slave, forced to serve his student masters under threat of blackmail
has just completed his first week of humiliating servitude. Highlight of
the past twenty-four hours, however, has been his final acknowledgement of
his own sexuality and the strength of his feelings for favourite pupil,
Richard Mayhew, who has already declared his love for his teacher. Added
complications include the fact that the well-endowed Alan has attracted the
attention of seemingly otherwise heterosexual games master, Dave Whalley,
who simply cannot get enough of Alan's cock. A new day of a new week dawns
. . . ]
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - With This Ring . . . .
I could see the photograph on my desk as I entered the classroom. My mind,
however, was full of higher-minded things.
"Sit down, gentlemen," I began, as I moved to the board and wrote the one
word "Regicide" with a flourish.
We had already reached as far as Act One Scene Five in "Macbeth", where we
first meet Lady M. reading a letter from her husband in which he recounts
the witches' strange prophesies. Moving to the desk to put my bag down, I
stared with open-mouthed horror at the photograph placed there for me. It
was obscene. It was me, dressed in the onionskin shorts and the
midriff-revealing singlet, stooping to fasten my shoelace in the middle of
town. Taken from across the road, the picture showed me kneeling on my
right knee as I tied the laces of my left trainer. Clearly visible was my
scrotum bulging out of the right leg-hole of my ruckled-up shorts.
A snigger alerted me to the fact that everybody in the room had already
studied the image closely. I looked up and stared glassily at the sea of
fourth-form faces avidly searching mine.
"Whose is this?" I amazed myself with the steadiness of my enquiry.
"Mine, Sir."
I focused in upon Farnworth.
"I took it on Saturday afternoon, Sir. In town. With my new digital
camera," he added unnecessarily. "I was very surprised when I saw it was
you, Sir. Dressed like that."
The boy was enjoying himself at my expense enormously. I recalled his
crowing attitude after my humiliation on the rugger field. "I didn't
recognise you with your clothes on, Sir," he had shouted down the corridor
the following day.
"It's a very clear shot, isn't it, Sir? It shows everything. Digitally
enhanced on my computer."
It was digitally enhanced all right. I was hung like a bull, my bloated
scrotum hanging down against my thigh, mere inches from the ground upon
which I knelt. The child had obviously taken my picture and, upon blowing
it up, seen that the mesh support hung below my leg-hole when in a
crouching position. Applying flesh tint to the whiteness of the mesh inner
lining, and enlarging the whole bulge, he had produced this freakish
obscenity for him and his form-mates to roll with laughter over.
"Most amusing, Farnworth - even if libellous," I said dismissively, tossing
the snap to one side. "Now, will you all turn to Act One, Scene Five,
please . . ."
Farnworth had his hand up.
"Yes Farnworth, you may read Lady Macbeth, seeing as you're so anxious."
His classmates laughed and jeered. They were onside again.
"No, Sir, not that. I wanted to ask why my photograph was libellous."
"I'm sure my solicitor will be only too happy to acquaint you with that,
should you wish to pursue the matter further. Will you start reading from
the beginning of the scene, please? Enter Lady Macbeth reading a letter."
I was, of course, intensely embarrassed and doing my very best to avoid my
fourth-form set seeing the fact that they had got to me. As I sat,
incidentally trapping my scrotum beneath me, and swiftly adjusting my
position accordingly, I silently cursed my masters. That I had been forced
to parade myself through town so scantily clad on Saturday, that even now I
was "going commando", my balls hanging free and missing the support of my
ample briefs, was down to them - Tim Robey in particular. The instigator. I
fell to wondering why he was deriving such pleasure in his power over
me. What had I ever done to him to deserve this? That I chose to ignore the
thrill that ran through me as I pored over the humiliations heaped upon me
by this boy and his cohorts is something I was not prepared to acknowledge
in myself at that time. What it signified was, in itself, something I was
more than happy to leave on the back burner.
Between teaching periods, Dave Newman stopped me in the corridor and asked
if he could see me in my study for a moment. His demeanour was entirely
respectful, though there was a steely look in his eye. It was as I had
suspected. I was immediately ordered to drop my trousers for him to see if
I had obeyed the no underwear ruling for the day. He took his duties
further by holding out his cupped hand, and I had to shuffle round my desk,
my trousers round my ankles, my shirt tails gathered up to my armpits, in
order to lay my genitals in his open palm as an obvious act of submission.
"Good boy," he said, giving them a gentle, almost affectionate, squeeze
before permitting me to dress again and continue to my next lesson.
"Thank you very much, Sir," he called back to me as I let him out of my
study, to all intents and purposes, from what had been a perfectly ordinary
master-pupil encounter. He had also taken with him a supermarket carrier
bag containing my bathrobe which I had been instructed to take to school
for "modification".
At break, I had barely entered the Masters' Common Room when the
Headmaster's secretary tugged my gown and asked if I could "pop by".
Derek Bamforth, the art master was with the head and we acknowledged each
other with a brief nod as I gave my full attention to what the big man was
saying. Apparently one of the sixth form artists who had been promised an
art scholarship at university had expressed a desire to paint a picture
especially for the alma mater he was about to leave the following summer,
reflecting memorable school events. The concept he had in mind was that
these cameos of life should act as a border to the main oeuvre, a
life-study of me, naked and clutching a rugby ball. I was adamant in my
refusal, despite wheedles and appeals from both the Headmaster and
Bamforth. It was an incident I, for one, hoped to live down as quickly as
possible, I explained. I had no wish that it live forever in posterity like
an albatross round my neck. The bell cut through any further appeals and
with a firm: "I'm sorry, Headmaster, but it is out of the question," I
turned and headed towards the Common Room to grab a hasty cup of tea before
lessons began again, dismissing the matter further from my head.
It was the double lesson with my own group next. My heart fluttered as I
entered the room. I caught my breath as Richard's eyes and mine met. Was he
hard, I wondered?
I was, and embarrassingly so without underpants to contain it. I carried my
textbooks low to conceal the fact, and went to sit behind my desk instead
of, as was more usual, upon the front edge of it.
"I saw you coming out of the Head's study just now, Sir," Tim Robey called
out. "Have you been a bad boy?"
There was some good-hearted and teasing banter from the rest.
"Ooh, Sir. You didn't get the cane, did you?"
"On your bare backside, Sir?" Geoff Talbot wanted to know.
I smiled evenly.
"I'm surprised you need to ask, gentlemen," I countered. "I feel certain
there are several of you here who would vouchsafe from personal experience
that it would be virtually impossible for me to be sitting here comfortably
had I just enjoyed such a session as you so graphically envisaged with our
esteemed Headmaster."
And as I said that, the scales fell from my eyes. Instantly, I recalled a
vivid picture of Robey as a fifth-year student, trousers crumpled round his
ankles, being slippered by Jarvis, the deputy head, and me acting as
witness whilst the poor lad was sporting a mortifyingly unconcealable
erection . Straightening up again, having taken his punishment, as he had
stood, his scarlet penis had thrust itself through both the fly hole of his
underwear and the gap in his shirt tails attracting Jarvis's attention and
earning the bitingly caustic and unhelpful remark : "Put it away
immediately, you disgusting little boy."
I remember having thought it unforgivable to draw attention to what was,
after all, a spontaneous and uncontrollable reaction on his part. I also
recollect the murderous look the mortified boy had shot at us both as he
scrambled back into his clothing, his condition still painfully obvious
even through his trousers, a small wet spot appearing darkly on the school
grey fabric. Jarvis had left at the end of that term for another
appointment elsewhere. Was I suffering now as a sort of pay-back, I
wondered?
Tim looked at me in much the same way now, two years on, uncertain whether
I was referring to that episode in which we had both featured. A nervous
smile flickered across my face, lightening the tension, I hoped, and I
opened my text-book. Further into the lesson, and now well into my stride,
I rose to write some Chaucerian English on the board to see already written
upon it "going commando - without underwear". A small arrow was drawn
beneath the phrase. I calculated that this must have been pointing at my
head as I sat at my desk below the board. Without reacting, I wiped it out
and wrote up my phrase, seamlessly continuing my lesson - or so I hoped.
After lunch, Derek Bamforth came to my study where I was trying to catch up
on some marking I had put off from doing over the weekend. I remained
adamant in spite of his further entreaties to pose for his star artist and
welcomed the interruption of a timid knock at my door. My shouted response
admitted Richard to the room.
"Ah, Mayhew, is it that time already? Come in, come in. I'm afraid you'll
have to excuse me, Mr Bamforth. I'm already running late for Mayhew's
appointment.
Bamforth left murmuring hopes that I might reconsider the matter, I
responding that it was a hopeless case. Richard looked puzzled.
"I didn't have an appointment," he said, shrugging.
"I know you didn't, but Mr Bamforth didn't know that, and I wanted rid."
My red traffic light was on, I was round the desk and my key was in the
door and locked in an instant, before we turned and embraced. Immediately
he plunged his hot mouth over mine. I pulled free.
"No, Richard, not here," I gasped breathlessly, "We mustn't. I can't. It
seems wrong somehow. Our rôles are so very different here. It is
important they remain so."
My protests were futile. He silenced each of them with another kiss. He too
was my master; my gentle master. Suddenly, he pulled away from me to look
me in the eye, whilst still holding me in an embrace.
"By the way," he said. "Going commando. On the board this morning. Was that
for your benefit, or something left over from a previous lesson?"
I avoided his gaze, blinking frequently and looking down.
"You're blushing," he taunted, and I felt him slip his hands down the back
of my trousers.
"Stop it!"
I squirmed as he grasped handfuls of my bare buttocks. I explained that it
had been my latest order, and he growled roguishly as he groped me
mercilessly.
"Richard, stop it, I say! Now!"
"Or else what?" he whispered with a cheeky grin as he moved his left arm
round to the front and felt for my naked and fast growing cock.
"Or else I cancel our next private lesson!"
He took both hands out of my trousers and stood contritely in front of
me. I reached out and cupped his cheek.
"Not in school, Richard," I said softly. "We must curb our impulses. It's
too dangerous. For both of us."
With a resigned nod, he gave me a sad little grin. He told me how much he
had enjoyed our Sunday together and the long 'phone-call of the night
before, and eventually, reluctantly, we parted.
"Thank you, Sir," he called brusquely over his shoulder as I let him out of
my study.
Such was the studied insouciance with which he went on his way, I almost
felt hurt that he should find parting so apparently easy.
"Have you a moment, Sir?"
I turned to see Tim Robey and Geoff Talbot approaching from the other
direction.
"I suppose so," I began reluctantly.
"We need to borrow your jacket," Geoff said as he began to help me out of
it once the door was closed and the red light on again.
He explained that they needed it to estimate the length I was to be
permitted to have my robe. Slipping it off my shoulders, he bundled it over
his arm and left the room. Robey took over and began to unfasten my
trousers.
"Newman's already checked me," I said laying my hands on his to restrain
him.
"Take your hands away," he spat at me venomously. "How dare you try to stop
me!"
"Sorry, Sir," I mumbled apologetically.
"Hands on your head immediately!"
I assumed the demeaning position as my pupil once more set about undoing my
trouser fastenings. They quickly slithered down and pooled around my
feet. Without pause be began to unbutton my shirt.
"You refer to each of us to the other always as Master Newman, or whatever
- never just our surnames. Is that clear?" he snapped at me.
"Yes, Sir," I responded meekly.
"So, you appear to enjoy going commando," he leered at me, as he hefted my
penis in his hand and studied my expression of discomfort. "Throwing a bit
of a boner, aren't you, Big Boy?"
I did not dare to tell him that I had not gone down from my fondling
encounter with Richard moments ago.
"That's what I like to see. And I've got a little present here for you
that'll help you to make the most of your assets at all times."
He produced what appeared to be a steel ring of the type I had seen
inserted in bulls' noses.
"Thank you, Sir," I said a little blankly.
"You know what it is, don't you?"
I admitted I didn't.
"It's a cock ring."
I was mystified.
"From now on, you shall wear it as a symbol of our ownership of you," he
explained.
I looked at the ring and wondered how on earth I could keep it on. The boys
had certainly appeared to have an inflated idea of my dimensions,
constantly referring to me as "Big Boy", but the diameter of the hard metal
ring he held up for me to see far exceeded that of my manhood.
"Now let's be completely clear about this. I am going to put it on now, and
it does not come off again without our express permission. Do you
understand?"
"Yes, Sir," I murmured, thinking there was no way I was going to be able to
keep that on unless I had a raging erection upon which to hang it.
He knelt before me, and I shuddered as he brushed the back of his hand
against my pubic area.
"Hmmph. Stubbly. We've got a five o'clock shadow down here. Time for
another shave, I think. I must get somebody round tonight, I think. Make
sure everything is laid out ready for whoever it is who arrives."
"Yes, Sir," I murmured meekly again.
I leapt as he took hold of my scrotum.
"Steady!" he ordered.
He was trying to separate my testicles and force one through the ring.
"What are you doing, Sir?" I asked, agitated.
"Putting on your cock ring. I've just told you!"
I decided that discretion was better rather than reveal too much of my
ignorance.
I winced and writhed a little, as Whispering Tim forced my second testicle
through the aperture. It looked like a ball ring to me - not a cock
ring. However, then he took hold of my far from flaccid cock and, bending
it back on itself quite painfully, pulled on the foreskin and pinched the
acorn head to try and push it through the ring now filled with the neck of
my scrotum. Grabbing hold, he yanked the whole stalk through. It was quite
red and swollen, and as he stood to inspect the effect of his handiwork. I
was alarmed to note that it stood out at a ninety degree angle from my
body, and quite obviously in an excited condition. I was conscious of a
pulsing sensation in it, and as I watched it reddened and swelled further.
"It's too tight, Sir," I said at last. "It's restricting the blood-flow."
"That, Big Boy, is the whole idea. You'll never be properly soft again,
most likely. Always excited to see us, and keen to live up to your
name. Eh, Big Boy?" he grinned.
Permission was granted for me to dress again. I hauled up my trousers
thankfully, all too conscious of school life just on the other side of my
door, and was appalled to note that my penis still stuck out like a Douglas
fir on a promontory. To make matters worse, my scrotal sac had gathered
tautly behind the root of my phallus, my testicles had enlarged and were
now carried high up under it, giving unwonted further prominence to an area
of which I was, at best, sensitive of having attention drawn to. Had I
adorned it with a selection from Blackpool Illuminations I doubt if I could
have added to the curiosity and fascination its bulging and pulsating
distortion would draw.
"I can't go out of here like this!" I wailed, gesturing at my ballooning
tumescence.
"You'll have to have a wank then. Oh, and apparently when you come with a
ring on, it's quite something else, so I'm told. From what I've heard,
you'll thank me for it."
Just then the bell went signifying the start of afternoon school. Tim
grinned.
"Would you like me to take the afternoon register for you, Sir?" he
offered.
I gratefully accepted the gesture, thankful of an extra five minutes or so
for my erection to subside.
"I'll tell them something came up which prevented you from doing it
yourself," he winked and left the room with my register.
I sat behind my desk and willed myself limp. It was a battle of wills, and
I felt it buck in its new shiny metal harness.
* * *